A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  “No . . . The trip is a literary tour too—I’m in charge of that part, and that area is hugely significant for the client.”

  No reply.

  “It is.” Lucy pressed her lips together, annoyed with how high and pitchy her voice had emerged.

  “And you made sure it was one of the stops.” A statement, not a question.

  “What do you want me to say? I almost didn’t tell you.”

  “Don’t get upset with me, Lucy.” Her mom’s words were soft and coaxing. “I don’t want to see you disappointed or hurt, and I’m sad that it sounds like you’re manipulating things to bring this about. You are so like him at times . . .”

  “You say that and it’s never good. I haven’t manipulated anything. It’s not even on the itinerary.”

  “Yet.”

  “That’s not . . . I just want to see him. How can that be so wrong?”

  “I get that, sweetheart, and it’s not wrong. But how you go about it might be and, besides, you can’t let him affect you like that—not anymore. Make your own choices. Good or bad, they matter. They affect others.”

  “Believe me, I know.” Lucy bit her lip, unwilling to discuss James. She reached for a distraction. “How much do you know about Dad’s family? Dad’s dad?”

  “Very little. He died when you were a baby and we only met once. I know nothing about his mother. She was the one who was English. Why?”

  Lucy debated telling the story. It might help in sorting it out. On the flip side, she knew her mom’s clear, logical brain would refuse to drop down the rabbit hole with her. She would instead strongly suggest Lucy plug it. “No reason. I just wondered.”

  “Are you going to tell me what’s really going on here?”

  “I wish I knew.” Lucy took a sip of coffee and let the moment linger. When her mom stayed silent, she ventured further. “I’m stuck, Mom. I can’t explain how or why, but I feel it. And if I could meet him, it’d answer so many questions and I could push through. I know I could. And this trip . . . What if it’s a sign? I can’t pass this up. Can’t you understand that?”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but I’m not sure it works like that. But maybe . . .” Her mom’s voice became clearer. She’d removed her earpiece. “Maybe I’ve done this wrong too and it works just as you hope. After all, if I knew the answer, I’d give it to you and we wouldn’t be having this conversation, right?” She gave a soft, reassuring chuckle.

  “Right. It’s all your fault.” Lucy tried to laugh.

  “So Bowness-on-Windermere, huh? Are you sure?”

  “That’s what the postmark says, and I’m sure,” Lucy announced with more conviction than she felt.

  “How are you going to get there?”

  “Mom . . .” Lucy closed her eyes. She could see her mother’s face, hazel eyes narrowing at her as they had every time she’d caught her young daughter, her teenager, or her adult daughter in a lie or in an exaggeration or even telling a good story that wasn’t quite true . . .

  “It’s a legitimate question, Lucy.”

  Lucy was tired of lying, making excuses, backing out of fibs, or rewriting stories she’d already told. She was tired—so she gave the most honest answer she could. “It’s not one I’m prepared to answer.”

  Lucy replayed her mother’s words the entire weekend. What had felt serendipitous, even divinely ordained, now felt tainted and coerced—and it hadn’t even been accomplished yet. She turned it over and over until the only answer she could find was to see it through. She unlocked the gallery’s front door and noted the alarm’s absence.

  “Sid?” Lucy called loudly, glancing briefly at the antique standing mirror. Ugh . . . She slapped her cheeks, noting that the dark circles under her eyes seemed her most colorful and defining feature.

  “Back here.”

  She hurried into the back room. “You’re so early today.”

  “I thought you’d be busy planning and packing so I came in. See? I’m adaptable and will survive two short weeks.”

  “I didn’t doubt it.” Lucy stepped to the worktable where Sid sat hunched over a sketch. “What are you working on?”

  “Designing a dressing room. It’s right outside a full walk-in closet so it’s more sanctuary than storage, but I can’t get a feel for it. My concepts are too opulent for what I sense she wants and she isn’t quite sure herself.”

  Lucy leaned over. The room was colored in pinks and greens with Baroque-style heavy hanging mirrors. “What’s she like?”

  “Good question. Claire Longreen is in her midforties, but her style is older. She volunteers at the library and her church, but never out front. She gives anonymously and fears she’ll be irrelevant to her children someday.” Sid looked up from his drawing. “She’s reserved, but not insecure, and she’s got a strength about her that’s very appealing, especially because she’s completely oblivious to it.”

  Lucy smiled. She was used to hearing Sid talk about his clients in such terms. He listened to them, searched for their essence, and created spaces that he believed could surprise and delight them because they simply were them. She laid a hand on his back; the physical connection soothed her heart. Sid had a good heart.

  “What about covering the walls and even the doors in fabric? Flawlessly clean and understated, but beautiful, warmly tactile. Something pale, like a pink or lavender silk with hints of either gold or silver. Lavender and silver, I say.”

  Sid’s head snapped back. “Nothing else. No hardware, no mirrors. Instead mount everything inside panels. Simple, elegant, and yet so sumptuous. Where’d you get the idea?”

  “She doesn’t sound like someone who’d want mirrors as a focal point, but they are necessary for a dressing room. And the lavender will be better—carries more gravitas than pink. You did something similar at Helen Carmichael’s. Her guest room? But she needed the frivolity of the pink.”

  “I’d forgotten that. That room was such a treat. But look at you, taking it further and adapting it.” He scraped the green pencil against his chin. “You’ve got an eye for this, Lucy. An inner eye if you’d trust it more.” Sid flipped the page on his sketch pad and started anew.

  Lucy tried to savor the compliment, but couldn’t. While Sid worked on the Longreen home, she tackled the list of appointments and scheduling for London. She recorded the locations and hours of bookshops, antique stores, literary sites, tourist traps—anything and everything they might want to see—in London and Haworth.

  She also canvassed all the necessary details for the Lake District, telling herself again and again that the addition was valid, it held personal and literary value for Helen, and it was best to be prepared.

  Lucy secured the tickets and hotels then set to compiling the itinerary for Helen’s son. Sid came and went and at some point dropped a sandwich on the corner of her desk.

  “Sid?” Lucy crumpled the sandwich wrapper as she reviewed the gallery business that she was leaving behind. She waited until he emerged from another sketch. “Can you handle all the sourcing while I’m gone? I don’t want anything dropped with the time changes and I won’t be able to stay on top of everything here.”

  He picked up another pencil. “I know that, but things will still get dropped. I don’t have your touch or efficiency, but we’ll survive.”

  Efficiency. Disdain curled the side of Lucy’s mouth. “That’s one word for it,” she mumbled and leaned back in her chair. “ ‘Go back to go forward’ . . . A clean slate.”

  “Hmm . . .?” Sid didn’t lift his head from his drawing.

  Lucy called back, “Nothing. Thanks for handling all that.” She tossed the sandwich wrapper into the bin. “And thanks for lunch.”

  “Hmm . . .?” Sid was deep within the Longreen home.

  Chapter 11

  Friday arrived more quickly than Lucy expected, especially considering she hadn’t slept for the three nights leading to it. There had been no calls to make, little cleaning to do, and few things she needed to pack, but st
ill, sleep had remained elusive.

  So, wide awake, she had read. And rather than turning to her present favorites, she opened the pages of stories from her childhood: The Tale of Ginger and Pickles, The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, and, of course, The Tale of Peter Rabbit among other Potter stories; poetry by Wordsworth and Coleridge; and Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons. All Lake District writers. She felt them drawing her closer and closer to her father and the latest Birthday Book buried in her suitcase.

  She hadn’t read it; she hadn’t opened it. Part of her hated each book that arrived, with no note or message and probably sent book rate to save money, while another part, equally powerful, cherished each and eagerly awaited its arrival. That part she hated more. She climbed out of bed and slid the book free, rubbing her fingers across the envelope’s postmark. Bowness-on-Windermere.

  At six o’clock in the morning Lucy found herself dressed and stiff and nervous, standing in Helen’s lobby. The bellman helped pull her rollerboard through the revolving door.

  “Mrs. Carmichael’s grandson is collecting her. He’s taking you both to the airport.” The doorman laid down the phone.

  “Thank you.” Lucy paced the small room, her feet wearing out the rug beneath her. She couldn’t decide if it was anticipation over the trip or the certainty of seeing James that sent her pulse racing.

  “You’ll get dizzy.”

  She stilled at James’s voice. He stood inches from her, looking down. She stepped back and caught her heel on the edge of the rug.

  “Whoa.” He steadied her by the elbow then dropped his hand again.

  “I’m nervous.” She captured his eyes then decided it was easier not to look there. “What are you doing here?” She tried to stop, but couldn’t help herself and escalated the hurt swirling between them. “Still trying to convince her not to go?”

  “Nothing I said had any effect.” He looked down at her, no smile—no expression at all. “You could’ve helped.”

  Lucy felt her eyes flash in search of an answer or a retort, but she then noticed Helen exit the elevator, and relented.

  Helen turned from the doorman and faced her. She stilled, her eyes flickering between Lucy and James. She crossed the lobby. “Are you two still at odds? Really, James.”

  James opened his mouth to speak, but Helen cut him off. “I said I’m not getting involved and I’m sorry I commented.” She pressed her lips together to prove her point then parted them again. “Ask Ted for your car, dear, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Once settled in James’s car, Lucy found herself sitting directly behind him and able to catch glimpses of his eyes in the rearview mirror. Rather than give in to the temptation to keep looking at him, she studiously observed Chicago slip by as they headed west. She also labored to block out the conversation in the front seat.

  Yet as they approached the terminal, she couldn’t avoid it. Helen reached over and squeezed James’s hand. “I love you.” The words came out low and soft. Lucy couldn’t identify the layers beneath them, but they existed.

  “I love you too, Grams.”

  “People aren’t always what they appear, James. The gift is accepting them as who they are, not who we want them to be.”

  “Grams?”

  Is she talking about me? Lucy missed Helen’s reply as she shifted in her seat. The conversation ended as James pulled up to the terminal, and Lucy got out of the car, eager to create distance. But as she opened the trunk for the bags, she found herself lightly pushed aside.

  James reached in. “You don’t need to haul these.”

  “Thank you.”

  He didn’t reply. Instead he set down the bags and then pulled his grandmother in for a last hug. He said softly to her, “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Don’t fret. I wouldn’t dream of bothering you at work.”

  “All the partners are in Hawaii. Disturb me all you want.”

  Lucy moved forward, but James avoided her, climbed back in his car, and drove away.

  Lucy peeked at Helen. Her head listed to the side and her eyes were closed. The flight attendant removed the china bowl of warm nuts and pulled out Lucy’s table. She then laid a dinner tray in front of her, complete with salad, bread, Chicken Piccata, and real silverware. Lucy stared at it until the flight attendant tapped her shoulder.

  “Should we let her sleep?” She gestured to Helen.

  “I’m not sure. She did order, so she must expect to eat.” Lucy lightly laid her hand on Helen’s arm.

  Helen whispered, “I’m awake.”

  “Dinner’s here if you’re ready.”

  The attendant leaned over Lucy to help pull out Helen’s lap table and lay down her tray.

  “It smells wonderful.” Lucy leaned over the steam. “I never imagined planes were like this.”

  “Is this your first flight?”

  “Yes. When I was a kid, we took road trips. My dad loved driving and my mom doesn’t take many vacations. She works in real estate and says it never sleeps.”

  Helen repositioned her silverware, straightening each piece. “Not now perhaps, but a few years ago I’ll wager she thought it only slept.”

  “True. All the hard work in the world couldn’t move houses for a while.” Lucy took a bite. “James didn’t win the trip, did he?”

  Helen shook her head as if replaying the moment he’d told her. It was a slow, sad motion. “He has the dubious honor, I gather, of being the number two associate.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I’m not sure. James has little tolerance for gray and there’s been a lot of that in his life lately.”

  “You’re talking about me.”

  “Not exclusively. I think there’s a lot of gray at top law firms, and James wants everything to be clear and plain—transparent. He’s like his father, most comfortable there. I think he’s struggling with the complexity of reality.”

  Helen pushed her salad around the small plate. “I’m struggling with that myself. I should never have kept that watch, Lucy. Not because it belonged to someone else, but because of what it meant, deep inside me, for Charles, for us.” She threw Lucy a sideways glance. “Can you tell I’ve been dwelling on this?”

  “Did you tell James about it?”

  “Goodness, no. He’s struggling enough.” Helen peeked over. “I know I told you this, but you really do have your grandfather’s eyes. I find it strange to see him in you so strongly. I remember him now, far more powerfully than I’ve allowed myself in years. Only he had brown hair.”

  “My mom’s a redhead.” Lucy reached up and patted her hair as if reassuring herself of the color. “We . . . We haven’t had a chance to talk about all this.”

  “I’m sure you have a million questions.”

  “That’s on the low side.”

  “Go slow.” Helen laughed. “I’m not as quick as I used to be.”

  “Why did you keep it? You let Ollie go. You married Charles. Why wasn’t the story done?”

  “That would have been smart and healthy.” Helen chewed as if processing her food and thoughts at an equal pace. “I took it as a carrot, a dare. I kept it as part-revenge, part-talisman. And for years, if we’re going to be completely honest, part-hope. But the day I married Charles, the story should have ended. It wasn’t fair to us. But I couldn’t let go; I couldn’t let go of Ollie.”

  Helen laid down her fork and dabbed her lips with the white cloth napkin. She held it inches from her lips. “I loved him with a crazy passion, Lucy, and it scared me. That was my ultimatum the night we fought. He needed a legitimate job—for us.”

  “And then you stole the watch?”

  “When you say it like that it makes no sense at all,” Helen agreed. “But it did at the time. I ran out of that garage with the watch clutched in my fist, feeling so powerful. It felt like I held Ollie’s quintessence in my hands. He’d have to come for it, and for me.”

  Helen turned to the window. “You see, we . . .” She told of drinking gimlets while lis
tening to Dizzy Gillespie at the Sutherland Show Lounge, dancing until dawn at a new club each night, and sneaking past her apartment building’s doorman early each morning. She described her heightened state of anxiety, fearing Ollie’s next crazy idea and fretting he’d become bored and not show up at all.

  Food forgotten, her stories tripped into fall at school, when her red nail polish couldn’t last more than a day or two because she chewed each nail to the quick waiting for him to come for her. Finally, she grew quiet as she relayed once again the desolation of the empty garage, her acquiescence to her father’s plans, and the moment she met Charles Carmichael at a neighbor’s New Year’s Eve ball.

  “There was nothing left to hope for. So after that Christmas, I did as told—stayed on the North Shore and married. I tucked the watch and that wild, carefree girl away . . . Until you . . . I’d forgotten about her—and she was bold and fun, and I miss her.”

  Helen continued, but as her stories drifted toward Charles, her eyes grew soft. They’d been electric blue, fierce and icy, flashing with mixed emotions and charged memories while she recalled Ollie. But talking about Charles softened those colors, deepened them, and soon Helen’s blue eyes closed altogether.

  Lucy’s did not. The hope Helen had offered, go back to go forward, slipped away as the sun set and the plane charged east into darkness.

  The new beginning, seeing her dad and setting everything right within her, suddenly felt too heavy and impossible. To go back a couple years and correct her muddled lies? Maybe. To go back a generation and find her father redeemed and restored? Doubtful, but perhaps . . . But to break from what Ollie had started—three generations of clearly wayward choices, manipulation, and hurt? Not a chance. Lucy lifted her arms in supplication and let them flop into her lap.

  “I give up. I give up,” she whispered and reached for Villette.

  Chapter 12

  As the plane touched down, Lucy reached across Helen to open the shade. The cabin slowly came to life with the soft rustle of blankets and pillows, pushed aside to stow books and organize bags. The flight attendants fluttered like hens, readying their chicks to leave the nest by delivering coats and hand wipes.